


in candlelight, we dance

by SaerM



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexuality, Bathing/Washing, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Intimacy, M/M, Naked Cuddling, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Nudity, Obligatory (Brief) Misunderstanding, Post-Canon, Queerplatonic Relationships, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), light innuendo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-15 21:57:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21260291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaerM/pseuds/SaerM
Summary: “I may need my arms if I’m to bathe you, dearest.”Aziraphale and Crowley take a shower.





	in candlelight, we dance

A cool breeze snakes through the barely-open window and plays gently with two small candle-flames. The candles shiver only slightly and the warm-coloured shadows of plants and furniture wobble together like nonsensical monsters from children’s daydreams. It’s dark outside the window: only evening, but just the point in the season where the air is still fresh rather than freezing.

It wasn't a bath kind of day, Aziraphale had decided: a nice shower, just the ticket. Anyway, Crowley had always seemed uncomfortable with long baths, for one reason or another. But, a shower, now- that might be doable, not too ambitious. And their shower _ is _ comfortably huge, sheltered from any pesky drafts by panels of near-ceiling height. 

Aziraphale bounces on his toes in a miniscule circle. He’s nervous, yes, but there’s anticipation and excitement there too. Considering his level of anxiety, of course, makes him more so. It will be _ fine _: he and Crowley have recently forayed into other intimacies, and this is sure to go just as splendidly. Aziraphale’s had a lot of new experiences throughout his life, and hasn’t forgotten that they’re always a little scary at first, never mind what rationality has to say about it. He likes to think he’s pretty brave, like that.

He checks the candles once more, though they patently don’t need checking, and pats at the pockets of his bathrobe. (It’s very soft, very fluffy, and very white: a housewarming present from Crowley. Aziraphale adores it.) He fishes out a battered-looking MP3 player and places it carefully on the counter. Aziraphale has long refused, on principle, to contribute to the blatant consumerism of the technology industry but secondhand is a compromise he can make. Especially if it might make his darling demon smile. 

And now for the most crucial component. 

“Crowley?” he calls. “Are you busy, dearest?” 

Crowley slips through the open doorway like a languid shadow. “Terribly,” he says, in the vocal equivalent of rolled eyes. Crowley had been lounging across the bed, scribbling lazily in Aziraphale’s book of sudoku (it is, it should be noted, Aziraphale’s in name only) when he'd ducked through to the bathroom. It doesn’t need to be said that Crowley had only been waiting for Aziraphale to come to bed, so they could snuggle up together like warm apostrophes. Aziraphale wants to say it anyway, to watch Crowley’s absolutely darling blush bloom across his cheeks, but resists. Another time: he doesn’t want to push him too far before he’s even broached his invitation. 

Crowley looks around the bathroom warily (he’s always been wary of luxury, poor thing). “This isn’t your usual set up, is it?” Then, remembering that he’s been summoned, “Did you need something?” To Aziraphale, he seems poised to dash around the globe: fetching up whatever obscure ingredients his angel has a whim to bathe in. 

“Well, my dear,” it’s time to present his plan, “I know the whole luxury of bathing is more my thing than yours, but you were kind enough to introduce me to sleeping. And, do you know, I found myself awfully fond of it (_ with you _ , he doesn’t say, but it’s there anyway, capital letters and underlined). I thought I might return the favour? Not that there's any obligation, _ of course _.”

Crowley leans against the sink and looks a little out of his depth- it’s a good thing he decided against the bath then, Aziraphale thinks in private mirth, what with its _ depth _. He doesn’t look averse though, so Aziraphale continues on. He’s always enjoyed sharing his little pleasures. (Mostly. Explanations had always been wasted on Gabriel). “First-” Aziraphale bounces a little on his smile, “-we light the candles, which as you can see, I've already done. Then, I thought, undressing and music and-” 

“Angel- um- if we’re gonna...erm.” Crowley gestures meaninglessly. “Look, is there a reason we can't use the bed? I don’t- I don’t mind, if you want- it’s just I’m not sure we’re- I’m- advanced enough to, y’know, do this standing up and it would be a really embarrassing way to be discorporated, no offence.” The tail-end of the sentence trails off as though it wants to flee, in a mortified swirl, down the nearest plughole. 

“Oh! My dear.” Aziraphale covers his laughing smile with a delicate hand, then reaches forward to pet his shoulder reassuringly. The frequency of these little misunderstandings always leaves Aziraphale amused and vaguely perturbed: how many must litter their history, in the six millennia before they resolved on communication through actual, non-subtextual conversations? “I'm not sure I’m ready to- ahem- _ level-up _ like that either. That isn’t what I had in mind at all.”

“Oh?”

“Well, like I said, I thought we could shower together.” He tacks on a questioning tone to the last syllable, despite his earlier resolve to confidence. “No ulterior motives, I assure you.”

Aziraphale deploys _ twinkly eyes _.

“Er.”

“Humans find it very intimate you know,” he continues on happily, “bathing together. Throughout much of history, in fact... but we don’t have to do anything you don’t feel comfortable with, my dear boy.” 

“No- no. I’m comfortable! Look, epitome of comfort, me.” Crowley is very suddenly naked. 

He smiles indulgently. “Yes dear, I know.” 

Crowley blushes, having caught up to himself and feeling vastly less comfortable for it. “Well, what are we waiting for?” he says, marching into the shower and flipping the spray on aggressively. Crowley stands there leggily, awkward-looking and gawky like a sodden puppy. His _ dear _ darling, Aziraphale thinks in a rush of fondness. 

Aziraphale smoothly sidesteps a last twinge of apprehension; this is his forte, this comfort and pleasure. He’d been the one to drag Crowley to a restaurant all those years ago, and now it’s one of their favourite traditions. He can do the same with this. He reaches for the MP3 player, fusses with it, and presses play when the screen lights up. He sets it down and smiles, humming a little to the music, before stepping into the shower after Crowley. 

The audio quality is better than one would expect, especially since the player has never so much as _ met _ a speaker system in all of its long life. Nevertheless, the music is clear and loud enough to hear any lyrics, though softened by the glazed-glass of the shower walls. 

He curls his arms around Crowley’s waist, all soft wet skin, and lightly kisses the corner where neck meets shoulder. It’s still dry, sheltered from the spray so far. “I made a playlist,” he tells the freckles there. 

“A playlist?...Is this _ bebop _ , angel?” Crowley sounds pleasantly incredulous and that alone is worth every second that Aziraphale has spent humming and hawing over it. “I’m surprised you didn’t put together an _ ‘arrangement of vocal symphonies’ _ , or hire a _ bard _ to hang about in that corner there and serenade us.” 

“Well, you like it so much, dear, I thought I’d see what all the fuss was about. Turns out some of the pieces are rather lovely.”

“Songs, angel, they're called songs.”

“Yes, yes.” He rests his head on the edge of Crowley's shoulder and tilts his face to look up coyly. “Some of them made me think of you.”

“You sap,” Crowley laughs, looking pleased. Crowley has curled skinny arms around Aziraphale’s waist in turn, and he tucks his cheek onto wet-white hair, slowly shimmying in closer, like he’s evaluating each micromovement to make sure it’s perfect. He hugs on like some kind of tree snake: long lines of slinky grace entangled with a critical branch high up in the canopy. 

“I may need my arms if I’m to bathe you, dearest,” Aziraphale nudges warmly. 

Crowley huffs soundlessly (Aziraphale feels it warm on his ear) and nuzzles his whole body closer. “We don’t need to wash ‘Zirapale, we can just-” Crowley has no desire to remove his hands from their place on Aziraphale’s shoulder blades, so instead illustrates near-limitless, reality-bending powers through an artless jig of his shoulder. 

Aziraphale skims his fingertips slowly up and down Crowley’s sides, or as much as he can from the capture of the tight embrace. “I’d like to though,” he says guilelessly.

With only a brief, smacking kiss on the forehead in warning, Crowley breaks away from their almost-slow-dance and gropes down for the tub of body wash. The light is muzzy from the steam and low light, not enough to account for that much fumbling about, but Crowley has never been graceful. Aziraphale watches fondly, maintaining a solitary point of contact: a gentle palm on Crowley’s hip. 

Crowley comes up triumphantly, cradling an iridescent palmful of blue-pink jelly, one of the many sensual treasures resulting from Aziraphale’s latest unsupervised London jaunt. Aziraphale scoops the body wash from Crowley’s unresisting hand and steps in close enough to be impractical. He starts by sweeping slow circles up his back and kisses Crowley below his ear, underneath the corner that the bones make there. “Let me look after you, love,” he murmurs, backed by some singer crooning the same from the confines of coded files. Aziraphale feels Crowley shiver and smiles into skin. 

Aziraphale does his best to write out his devotion in soap suds but keeps it more cursory than he would prefer (but then, that is isn’t saying much: he could do this forever) and endeavours not to become so thoroughly entranced as to forget himself. Crowley is still unused to being the focus of loving attention and Aziraphale doesn’t want to push, so he lets his efforts melt into a loose embrace once Crowley begins to fidget more than usual. 

“Gimme,” says Crowley soon enough, in a facade of impatience, gesturing at body wash still in Aziraphale’s hand.

“You needn’t...” 

“Hgggg,” comes the exasperated sigh. He gestures with his fingers to repeat himself, _ ‘gimme’, _ then snatches it without waiting for a response. “It’s your stupid wash stuff. And what the bloody blessing is _ carrageenan _ anyway?” 

“Well, _ I _ don’t know- but you must admit it’s _ very _ nice,” though admittedly, needlessly abstract names _ are _ a little tiresome. The scents of citrus fruits are dancing pleasantly with the growing clouds of steam though, and Aziraphale will not hear of the texture described as anything short of luxurious. 

Crowley makes a reluctant noise of assent and plucks the fluff ruffle (as Aziraphale calls it, and does it even _ have _ a proper name?) off its little hook with a flourish. He squidges it through his hands with the soap until faintly glittering foam is glooping out of it. Then he sets to washing Aziraphale. 

Caught on his partner’s expression- intent and gentle and full of care- Aziraphale suddenly _ feels _with every scrap of being, that this- to love and be loved, care and be cared for- this is what Crowley was Made for. If the devotion-warm gaze makes Crowley feel self-conscious, he doesn’t show it; but then again, Aziraphale thinks, noting the absence of blush, Crowley might well be too absorbed in his task to have noticed. Aziraphale closes his eyes, enjoying the contrast between the coarseness of the fluff ruffle and the smooth caress of Crowley’s other hand. Lovely. 

“Thank you, darling,” Aziraphale says, words heavy with contentment. He catches Crowley’s soft, answering kiss on his cheek. “Now then, down you get,” Aziraphale says, patting Crowley’s shoulder. “I’ll wash your hair.”

“_ Aziraphale _,” Crowley purrs, “if you wanted me on my knees all you had to do was say…” He kisses a dramatic and unnecessarily messy line down Aziraphale’s chest on his way down.

“Oh, don’t you start,” Aziraphale says, in considerable amusement.

Crowley gives him a lascivious wink, and huffs a laugh. He lounges forward, pressing his face into Aziraphale’s body and wrapping a squeezing embrace around his thighs. 

Aziraphale strokes fingers carefully through long hair and slowly pulls at it, tilting Crowley’s head to see his face. He takes in Crowley’s closed eyes, the scarce-seen relaxed expression, and lets his thumb trace a line down the middle of his forehead like a blessing. Crowley hums, eyes still closed, and gropes for the shampoo without moving from this position under Aziraphale’s hands.

Aziraphale washes his hair, employing gentle caresses to keep his head tilted back and the soap out of his eyes. Crowley’s hair is shoulder length and straight, its waves held down for now by the saturation of the water. It is quick work, but afterwards Aziraphale is extravagant in running his fingers through the dark hair, against his scalp. He needs to ensure against lingering shampoo, after all. It is a habit to find excuses for intimacy. However, Aziraphale has been working on this- because it’s maladaptive now, not the survival mechanism it once was- and he exerts some determined mental effort: allows himself to revel in _ ‘I am doing this because I want to’ _ until, eventually... 

“There, all done.”

Crowley hisses contentedly into Aziraphale’s belly. 

Aziraphale nudges him into standing, eliciting further hisses: these ones sounding terribly forlorn. Aziraphale rolls his eyes fondly, for the second time this evening comparing his _ most _ beloved partner to a puppy. Crowley grins at him.

Aziraphale twists the water off without looking away from Crowley, and immediately returns his arm to Crowley’s waist. They stand looped together, hips kissing, as a final song dwindles away into mellow instrumentals. In the steam and the dark, the world is washed-out and hazy, dreamlike: the only colour is of candlelight, fractured through the pebbling of water droplets on glass to look like melting golden gemstones. Without the soft barrage of water, their skin radiates captured heat and the air feels peace-quilted and heavy. A number of breaths and heartbeats later, they step reluctantly from the cocoon of arms and glass walls. 

Crowley lunges for the towels (or perhaps he slips; it’s hard to tell and the stone floor _ is _ a little condensation-slicked) and casts one at Aziraphale. Celestial warrior that he is, Aziraphale manages to catch it with not _ just _ his hands, but his head too. He splutters and Crowley makes an amused, cough-like sound, coming to stand by him in (from what Aziraphale can make out through the little window of his impromptu hood) a careful sort of stalk. When Aziraphale feels fingers dig in, drying at his hair, it is- given the recent towel attack- (un)surprisingly gentle. Aziraphale savours it and sighs happily. 

A flourish, and Crowley swipes off the towel to pat Aziraphale down briskly, spinning him by the shoulders, until he’s near-enough dry. 

They reach out then, together, and pause, jolted by the synchronicity. They share a smiling glance and finish their reaching together. Aziraphale collects his bathrobe from Crowley, and gathers it under his arm for the moment; he bundles Crowley up in a huge towel, dry and radiator-warm. 

Aziraphale blows out the candles; they’re on the other side of the room but that hardly matters. “So? What did you think?” 

“I-” Crowley rests his forehead against Aziraphale’s, “liked it very much. Sign me up.” Their faces are slotted together like a soft jigsaw puzzle and their breath shared. 

“Oh, _ good. _” 

“Hey,” Crowley says gently.

Aziraphale smiles, but suspects some insecurity is belied by recalcitrant facial muscles, and he fancies Crowley is close enough to feel it against his own skin. “I was worried you’d think it boring. Or uncomfortable.” 

“Nothing with you-” Crowley pauses slightly, “Nothing _ about _ you could ever be boring, angel.” He leans back slightly to tie the belt of Aziraphale’s bathrobe around him precisely. “And we talked about that ‘member? We tell each other, if we’re uncomfortable with stuff, yeah?”

Aziraphale smiles again and this time it’s soft and complete. “Yes, dear. It was just a silly little worry.” Crowley shows what he thinks of _ that _ with a particularly affronted scoff and Aziraphale reaches to take his hand. He cards his fingers over the knuckles, slips their hands together. “Come to bed?” 

“‘Course, love.” 

They go to bed, and it’s warm: the space beneath the duvet and their smiles and skin. And the places where their bodies kiss, those are the warmest of all. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> If you're thinking of leaving a comment, then pleassse do- I'll treasure it, no matter if it's an emoji or a single sentence just to say hi!  
(And let me know about any typos)  
Have a lovely rest of the day, folks x


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